Seth & Sandy
by Cootisms
Summary: Seth aged 13, dealing with bullying and teen issues as well as wanting to go to boarding school on the East Coast. Argues with Sandy, runs away, Sandy finds him, they talk
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note : This is a story that is both from Sandy and Seth's points of view. Seth's 13, he desperately wants out of Newport to go to board on the East Coast, Sandy & Kirsten have said no, not realising that life at school is so bad for Seth and they're just finding his adolescence a lot to cope with, as is Seth. He feels like he's a big disappointment to his parents, he's ashamed, lonely and just generally feels like an outcast and downright unlovable. He still adores his parents but is having a hard time showing it, as it's not considered cool…He and Sandy have an argument, Seth runs off, Sandy finds him and they talk. Hopefully I'll do a good job writing both inner voices of parent and teenager, as I was a moody one and had lots of arguments with my mum, over stupid stuff like my weight that never went anywhere and made me feel like crap, though now I can see it was 'cause she was concerned about me. I'm basing Sandy's feelings/thoughts on how I imagine she must have felt when we argued, but I'm not a parent of a teenager, so if it's completely off the mark, please tell me. _ Sandy's point of view 

Well, it's another beautiful Saturday morning in sunny, snobby Newport and I've just had the most fantastic morning surfing, the waves must have been 10 feet high at times. It's great to escape the house for a while and have some time on my own to process ideas and just generally clear my head. Also, having a 13 year-old son is making life rather interesting at the moment. I love him dearly, but recently we seem to be having the same old arguments all the time and I never seem to say the right thing… He doesn't seem to have many or even any friends at school, and that worries me so much, but whenever I tell him he's welcome to have people round, or suggest starting up a sailing or comi-I mean graphic novel after-school club, he either just looks at me like I'm insane, or tells me to stop interfering in his private life. He's also decided he wants to go away to boarding school on the East Coast somewhere, but Kirsten and I have discussed it and we still think he's too young to be living so far away from home. He didn't speak to either of us for a week after we'd said no, and god knows my son loves to talk. There have been a few problems at school already, in the form of verbal taunting, and if that were to happen far away from home, Kirsten and I would be even more powerless to help him and less likely to hear about it. As it is, we only found out about the bullying at a Parent-Teacher Conference, apparently Seth had promised his French teacher he'd talk to us about it when she'd heard some of the boys calling him names in the corridor. Seth claimed Madame Dubol is a crazy old woman with a bad memory and a tendancy to blow things out of proportion and was so upset at the idea of Kirsten and me taking it further that we didn't, something I deeply regret, but things seem to have sorted themselves out, so that's good.

It hurts that I can't even touch my son anymore, as physical demonstrations of affection are apparently for babies and it breaks my heart to remember how much he enjoyed being cuddled when he was younger. He was such a cute kid, always clamouring for a kiss and a hug, often for no particular reason other than I'd just entered the room. He used to love running into my arms when I picked him up from school and, once we were home, curling up in my lap and telling me all about his day, in infinite detail, but nowadays I'm lucky if I get a high five or a special handshake and I certainly can't drop him off outside the front gate at school anymore, he asked me to park round the corner and he'll walk the rest of the way, apparently everyone else's parents let them make their own way to school, but we don't think it's a good idea, especially not on a skateboard. Maybe he has a girlfriend and doesn't want us to know, as he probably thinks we won't understand, because obviously, we're old and didn't date until we'd « practically graduated from college », as Seth so eloquently put it. True, 13 is a little young to start being interested in girls like that, but if he is seeing someone, I'd like to think he could come to either of us for advice and that he'd know we were happy for him.

We don't really have conversations anymore, though we still exchange witty quips with eachother at mealtimes, but it doesn't really count as talking.

Right, nearly home, I'll just check if there's any mail. Bill…Another bill…A catalogue… an invitation to some black tie do that Kirsten will, claim to have mentioned ages ago and that she RSVP'd to, so now we have to go… Darn, dropped the whole lot ! Oh, the catalogue's for Seth, it's a school brochure of some sort, it's got a New York postmark. Great. Just great. He sent of for the darned thing anyway, even when we'd sat down with him and explained why we don't think he should go, at least not yet. It's tempting to trash it and never mention it, as Seth hates confrontation almost as much as I find it necessary sometimes, as it's a good way of clearing the air and getting down to the root of the problem, which is what I really need to do, as I feel there's more going on in Seth's life than he cares to tell me. It's just so difficult, I don't know how to read my son anymore, I can feel him slipping away, and I find that so frightening, as we've always been close up til recently.

His interests are a source of bemusement to me as well, it was so much easier when he liked Lego and board games, we'd spend afternoons building complicated models of forts or pirate ships or we'd have a Monopoly tournament. Now it's all depressing music by bands with strange names like « Killer Car for Sweetie », or something like that and instead of board games, it's X Box games with fiddly controls that I can't master and the games involve guys with big swords hacking away at eachother. I've tried so many times to master it, but just can't seem to get the hang of it, which makes Seth all snappy and moody and he'll ask me why I bother and I just don't have an answer to that.

I must get inside and get a coffee, it's an essential Cohen food group, as are bagels. It's our fail-safe staple, god knows what the world would come to without them. Oh, and cream cheese is a given too, it goes hand in hand with the bagels. In a happier moment, Seth once joked that if you cut open a Cohen, blood wouldn't spurt out, but coffee. That one certainly made us laugh, something he hasn't done in what feels like years. I'd give anything to see him smile properly, he used to do it all the time and seeing him all happy and smiley used to help me feel that way too. I used to call him Mr Megawatt or Seth-Smile-A-Lot, which are just two of the many pet names I used to call him by that have now fallen into disuse. Occasionally I'm permitted to call him Setheleh, but god forbid I do it in public and Sethini is strictly verboten now, as are countless others.

Seth probably won't be up for another couple of hours yet, so that'll give me some time to work out a plan of action and a firm but loving way of bringing up the whole boarding school debacle. Gone are the days when he used to come into our bedroom at 5 am asking if it was too early to go and watch cartoons or asking why there wasn't anything except pretty patterns to watch on TV, now he rarely makes an appearance before midday, and if he does, he'll come down in his PJs, make himself breakfast , grab the bits of the newspaper he wants and then he'll disappear again. Often he'll come down listening to his personal CD player, making conversation with him impossible, as he'd rather listen to depressing people mournfully wail about their despair than have an honest conversation with his mother or me.

I leave my surfboard in the porch, freeing my hands to open the door. Someone's put the coffee on, thank goodness. I shout out a greeting to whoever it is who's in the kitchen and make my way in there, following the intoxicating aroma of caffeine.

I'm surprised to see a dark, curly-haired figure hunched over the Arts & Leisure section of the paper. He looks up and waves a hand to acknowledge my presence. I address him with a friendly « hey » before noticing he has his earphones wedged into his ears. He raises his coffee mug at me and gestures at the coffee pot, almost spilling the contents of his mug and nearly knocking his plate containing a bagel schmeared in what looks like a tub of cream cheese to the floor. I have to catch myself to not reprimand him, as I remember my mother telling me to be more careful at that age, but it's hard when your arms and legs seem to get longer by the minute and there are hormones coursing all over the place, affecting your moods, spatial awareness and goodness knows what else. I dump the mail on the island and turn my attention to my breakfast, which should give me a couple of minutes to gather my thoughts before broaching the issue of schooling with my son. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seth rise, grab a bagel from the bread bin and make gestures asking me if I want it. When I nod, he flings it at me and I only just manage to catch it. He grins mischieviously at me, knowing that such antics would not be tolerated by his mother and I smile back, trying to recreate an atmosphere of easy trust that we had before. He doesn't hold my gaze long though, and I notice the smile doesn't really reach his eyes, not like it used to. He pads back to his section of the paper and pores over an article. Whether or not he's truly engrossed in it, I can't tell and that disconcerts me, as I used to be able to read him like an open book. I finish preparing my breakfast and go and join my son at the island. He promptly proceeds to get up and fusses around fixing himself a glass of orange juice, at the opposite end of the room, so he's definitely avoiding me.

I take a couple of deep breaths and try to guess the course this conversation could take, but that's not easy when you're faced with an unpredictable teenager who could react in any number of different ways : a viscious outburst, stony silence or, worst of all, a torrent of tears. The moody silences I can live with, though they worry me, the outbursts are sudden and fiery but are usually followed by an apology a few minutes later. It's the tears that really get to me though, they pierce my heart and make me want to hold him close until they stop, but he won't let me near him, he keeps me at an arm's distance, both physically and emotionally, and it's so difficult to respect his wishes.

He's seated facing me again, this time taking a long draught of juice so he doesn't have to look at me. As he puts his glass down, our eyes meet inadvertently for a fraction of a second and I mime taking off headphones to him. He gives me a curt nod and does as he is told.

I reach over to the pile of mail on the table and pass him his brochure.

I've decided that the 'softly softly' approach is probably best at this time of the morning, so I let him open it and peruse the enclosed leaflets and other promotional gubbins that has come enclosed with the brochure itself.

He looks up at me, puzzled as to why I haven't yet said anything. I look down at the information pack in his hands and then make eye contact with him again..

I gently prise the booklet from his hands and close it, keeping it under my palms to prevent him grabbing it back.

« We've already talked about this Seth, « I begin, already regretting my choice of words and hoping that my tone doesn't sound too harsh or accusing.

« and I thought we'd decided you'd stick it out here for at least another year before we reconsider. « I continue, wishing for the millionth time that he didn't reject my attempts at physical affection. He's chewing his lip now and is pulling at the skin on his fingers, both signs that he's upset and worried about something.

« I'm not mad at you, I promise », I say, trying to sound comforting and reassuring, but that only gets me a suspiscious look.

« Your mother and I think it's for the best that we stay together as a family and that you don't disrupt your education. Changing schools would be a big shift, you might be really far ahead in some subjects and way behind in others, it might mean a lot of extra work on your part, and we know you're not very good at coping with transitions » I declare, trying to sound confident yet firm and loving and feeling I've blown it with what he might see as a criticism of his personality. What does the manual say, Sanford ? It says to not bring your child's personal failings into arguments, and what do you do ? You go and bring your child's personal failings into a discussion ! Bra-vo, Sir !

As the manual predicts, I get a stony glare from my son, who still won't speak a word to me.

Suddenly, he stands and looks at me and starts talking, well, yelling really. He calls me a hypocrite, saying I moved clean across the country when I was only a few years older than he is now, that he's not 5 years old anymore and that we should stop treating him as such, and that we suck and don't understand.

Before I can stop him and explain to him that my situation was completely different to his (I was a street-wise 16 year-old with a scholarship who had a dream of bettering himself, while he's a slightly naive and very innocent 13 year-old that we love too much to send far away, he's stormed off out the door, grabbing his skateboard on the way out.

The manual reccommends giving your teenager space after an argument, so I let him go. There's only a couple of places he's allowed to go, so he's either headed to the beach or the pier, or possibly the poolhouse, but I don't think that's far away enough from me at the moment. He'll be back in a few hours, or whenever he's hungry, as I don't think he has any cash on him. I wish I could make him see how much I love him, how much I want to help him and that I'm not being mean or petty by not allowing him to go away.


	2. Chapter 2, Seth's Point of View

**Seth's point of view :**

God, I can't believe I'm awake this early, it's unnatural for a teenager to be awake at such an ungodly hour, It's not even a double digit time yet. But hey, my bladder needs emptying, and I'm starving, as usual, so I'll have to break the teenage commandment of not rising before midday just this once ! It's probably the intense hunger pangs that woke me, and all the eating I've been doing isn't even helping me gain weight, which might help alleviate some of the comments I get at school from the water polo team. They're a charming bunch, truly they are. They suggest vocations like fireman's pole (on account of my beanpole-esque proportions) or call me Death-Breath-Seth (how mature, nice to see they've progressed from their first grade humour), Scrawny-Seth, Comic Freak, and other generally uninventive and totally stupid nicknames. Dad always says that people who call you things like that don't deserve a response, that it's stooping to their level, and that if I ignore it, they'll find another target. However, 7 years on, they still haven't found one, and, like I said, their insults haven't changed much. Unfortunately, they'vve also discovered some games they like to play with me, the main ones being 'Let's all pee in Cohen's shoes » and « Let's stuff Cohen in a locker ». I'm not really a fan, to be honest. They also call me queer, which I think I know the meaning of, but I'm not sure and I can't ask a teacher or the parental units, as it would get them asking all sorts of awkward questions that are really none of their business. Mom and Dad, especially Dad, would go into Mega Fuss Mode and I just don't want to go through that again. Plus, they've got more important stuff on their mind, I think they might be getting a divorce, as they're both working like maniacs on various projects and court cases, and when they are home, they're at eachother's throats or barely speaking to eachother. That's why I don't understand their decision to make me stay here, instead of letting me go to the awesome East Coast boarding school. They'd be able to talk or argue as loudly as they wanted if they didn't have a pathetic, over-sensitive teenager in the house, especially one who has a tendancy to say the wrong thing in an attempt to defuse the situation, but just makes things worse. And it's not like the fees would be a problem, as Mom's the richest woman for miles around.

They say I'm not mature enough to leave home yet, but if they won't let me out of their sight for five minutes, as if I was a toddler or something, how am I supposed to grow up? If they stopped treating me like I was five years old and let me have some semblance of independance, maybe I wouldn't be such a friendless pathetic loser. I wish we'd never moved here, but they won't even listen to my attempts to get them to move back to Berkeley anymore, it's like they're doing that little kid thing where they think if they shut their eyes and put their fingers in their ears and shout 'Lalalala, I'm not listening', I'll go away, and they have the gall to call me immature ! Obviously, they don't actually say I'm immature to my face, they use more polite terminology, like innocent and naive, but I know what they really mean by it, I'm not stupid.

I must be such an embarrassment to them both, as I have a tendancy to ramble on about crap in awkward social situations which ends up with the recipient of my babble giving me a funny look and stepping away, then avoiding me all night. It's especially bad at the many Newport social events I'm forced to attend by Mom, as seeing as she's the Queen Bee of the Newpsies, and therefore chief co-ordinator of them, and she likes to show that we're a strong family unit, or something- basically, if Dad and I don't go, their marriage is on the rocks and I'm a spoilt teenager, and it gives them gossip material for months. Dad says he hates these events and the people who go there, but I hear him talking to them, using the Cohen charm that I haven't inherited. He always seems to know just what to say, he always makes people laugh and never gets flustered. Apparently we're a lot alike, but I can't see it myself, it's just damned lies that people say so I don't feel so bad about myself.

Dad has suddenly decided that it is his mission in life to know about every single detail of my goings on, and it's just so frustrating, it makes me want to scream sometimes ! He's always asking if he can look at my sketches, like he cares, but really it's just to check that I'm still drawing normal things, I reckon, he needs to know that I'm not on drugs or something. Seeing as I've never actually even held a lit cigarette in my hands, how exactly would I be doing drugs ? I mean, I've only had the lecture from the parents about drugs, alcohol and peer pressure about 10 thousand times in the last few months, don't they realise I'm a freak that doesn't hang around with his peer group, or with anyone, for that matter, so there's no pressure to give way to ? Dad's always on my case about having friends over, he says I could even have a sleepover, and me and my hypothetical friends could stay up late and crash in the lounge, if we'd like to. My Dad's so lame sometimes, I mean, no-one has had a sleepover for well over two years now, and if he knew the first thing about me, my taste in movies runs on the unknown side of obscure, definitely not sleepover material.

Having noted my absence of friends, Dad tries to fill the role, he's always offering to hang out with me, he's even tried to manipulate the Playstation controls but absolutely bombed, so he just gave up, and his motto is usually 'If at first you don't succeed, try harder', but I'm obviously not worth the effort. Sometimes, in a vague effort to be cool, he'll suggest a trip down to the pier for chilli fries or an ice cream with me, but he hasn't realised that being seen there with a parent is only to happen if you have plans to commit social suicide. He's also really big on physical demonstrations of affection towards me, which is just embarrassing, doesn't he get that hugs and kisses goodnight are for little kids, and that seeing as I'm not one anymore, it has to stop ? He often reminds me of how much I used to enjoy being cuddled when I was little, but that was ages ago, of course I liked it then ! How exactly am I supposed to grow up if he thinks a hug will make everything better for me, just like I thought it did when I was small ?

Both of them talk about being responsible and grown up, but they've never even let me had a pet before, other than a stupid fish that died after two weeks, and I'm not even allowed out to an evening showing of a movie by myself, how over-protective is that ?

I'm actually surprised I never made it into the drama club, as every day is an act for me. I smile at my parents as I tell them about my day at school, which involves giving them a list of the tests I aced (all of them) and telling them about the homework I've been assigned, the different projects and such like I've got to do. I think I've convinced them that I actually prefer to work alone, as I know they'd be disappointed to hear that no-one wants to partner geeky know-it-all big mouth Seth.

Sure, I get great grades, but any fool can do that if they work hard enough, it's nothing to really be proud of, but both Mom and Dad managed to fit in socially at school too as well as being academically gifted: Mom was just like Marissa, I imagine, lead deb, head of a variety of different clubs and I know Dad's old school didn't have much in the way of facilities or after school clubs, but the Nana's told me he was in charge of the debating society a couple of times and he was pretty good at basketball too. I'm totally unco-ordinated, gym class is hell for me, and sure, I'm artistic, but can only really draw cartoon characters, not real life stuff or architectural plans like Mom can.

They couldn't even provide me with a brother or sister either, someone to take the pressure off carrying on the Cohen family name and who would keep me company when they're both out working. Apparently, I was too much of a handful when I was little for them to consider having another child, and then Grandma got sick, we moved here, she died, Mom started working for Grampa, Dad got a job in the PD's office and so we stayed in this hell hole.

Anyway, I should make a move for the bathroom, then I'll get dressed and have breakfast.

I'm now seated in the kitchen, at the island, reading the Arts & Leisure section of the paper and consuming my second bagel of the day. There's still no sign of either of my parents, as Mom's « not feeling well » , which is a euphemism for a hangover, and Dad's probably out surfing, hopefully for a little while longer yet.

Darn, I spoke too soon. Must. Look. Busy. Dad's just come in through the front door, drawing attention to himself by carrying in the mail and therefore forcing me to acknowledge his presence. I'm so glad that whoever it was who invented the portable CD player did so, as it means I don't have to talk to anyone unless I choose to (I'm more and more convinced it was a teen with pain-in-the-butt parents), though the Parental Unit has decreed that it be removed at dinner time, apparently they enjoy reliving the Spanish Inquisition by asking me countless questions, the answers of which are actually none of their business. Dad's current obsession is whether or not I have a girlfriend, but seeing as the object of my affection is unattainable and doesn't even know my name, I hope he's not holding his breath, as it's never going to happen, the geek only ever gets the girl in the soppy chick flicks we have to watch when it's Mom's turn to choose what we watch during video night. If they stopped putting pressure on me, maybe I'd be able to relax and maybe even talk to Summer…

Dad complains that I don't talk to him properly anymore since I got my Discman, but we never really talked anyway, it was always just a stream of silly jokes or teasing comments directed at Mom and her lack of culinary expertise, so I don't know why he wants to be so close to me all of a sudden. I don't get it, as every time we start a father-son or man-to-man chat, as he likes to call them, they just end up in an argument, as he's constantly nagging me or criticising my taste in music or trying to get me to do stuff he deems cooler than what I do in my spare time. I wish he'd stop trying to run my life for me, it's so frustrating ! Sometimes I think he's lucky to have grown up without his dad, at least he never had to go through the excrutiatingly embarrassing talks Dad gave me about becoming a man and never had his personal space invaded without permission.

I wave at Dad, seeing as I may as well, and then chuck him a bagel, once I've silently informed him that the coffee's brewed. He grins at me and sits down, glancing weirdly at the mail as he does so, like there's a bomb in there or something. He's scrutinising me too, which is not a nice feeling, so I get up and pour myself a glass of orange juice. I take a gulp as I sit down again, but he's still looking at me funny. He motions at me to remove my headphones, and it's easier to do as he asks rather than give him grounds to tell me off. Grudgingly, I oblige and he hands me a package from the pile of mail next to him. It's the East Coast school brochure I sent off for ages ago, before I'd even mentioned the subject to him and Mom. He only gives me a couple of seconds with it though, before he grabs it away from me and starts rabbiting on about how there's no way I'm going and how dare I send off for such a thing because he and Mom have decided they want to see me suffer here forever, or at least til college, which might as well be forever, as it's 5 years away !

I hate it when he's like this with me, it means I have to yell to try and get a word in edgeways, and yell I do. I hate it when he's like this, it's best to leave him alone to calm down for a while, so I decide to head out, fully expecting him to follow me and ask me where I'm going and give my exact time of return, but he doesn't, which just goes to show how much he cares about me.

At least Mom doesn't do that, she just leaves me be, she always has done really, we've never been close, I think she's ashamed of how I've turned out too.

I grab my skateboard as I leave the house, as I'm not sure how far I'll go. I might even disobey my parents and go somewhere that isn't the beach or the pier, well, I would if there actually was some other place to go…


End file.
